


Burning Up

by Magnolia822



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Depression, M/M, Mind Meld, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unsafe Sex, abelist thoughts and langauge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:18:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1902165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months after the action in DoFP, Erik stops by for a visit with a request for Charles’ help. Charles knows he shouldn't give in, but old habits die hard. What happens next is more than either of them expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Up

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Asya for the beta! 
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a non-profit work of fiction. No offense is intended.

The thoughts in his head are so unexpected when they come, Charles doesn’t trust them. He’s been off the serum for months now, but once in a while his mind plays tricks on him, makes him hear voices his consciousness knows he might never hear again. Hank says it’s a side effect and it should wear off with time and the renewed use of the too-long dormant part of his brain that holds the key to his power; still, it’s bloody annoying. 

He shakes his head to clear it, struggling to sit up further in bed, and sets the book he’s been reading down on his lap. 

It’s not a delusion, or if it is then his subconscious is even more disturbed than he thought, because in the next instant Erik—Magneto—is knocking at his bedroom window, floating above the ground like some sort of deranged vampire. He’s not wearing his helmet or his cape, just a black turtleneck and trousers, like in the old days. In spite of himself, Charles’ stomach clenches. _Let me in, Charles_. The curtains billow with the gentle spring night breeze. 

_No._

It’s dark outside, but Charles can make out Erik’s smile. Too many teeth to be sincere, like a shark scenting blood in the water. 

_I’ll be good. I promise._

_It’s been three months._ Charles thinks the thought with a little more vehemence than he intended, and Erik must sense it. 

He cocks his head curiously. _I didn’t think you’d want me here._

 _I_ don’t. _And I told you I don’t want to be in your head anymore._

And with that, Charles withdraws from Erik, the tenuous cord growing thinner until it snaps, and his thoughts are his own again. 

Erik frowns. “Are you going to let me in, Charles?” he asks through the thin screen designed to keep out insects—but not one this large. 

“Absolutely not.” Charles gestures to his legs. “It’s rather a bother getting up, you see.” 

“Don’t let me inconvenience you,” Erik says, and with a steady outward gesture of his palm, the screen snaps away. 

Once Erik is inside and Charles can get a better look at him, he notices nothing out of the ordinary in Erik’s expression. No telltale sign that Erik has suffered as Charles has suffered over the past few months since Erik nearly assassinated the president and his entire cabinet on national television. He looks refreshed, well rested. Unbelievably gorgeous, as only the soulless can. 

“Still drinking, I see?” Erik lifts the empty tumbler on the bedside table to his nose and sniffs, the corner of his mouth drawing up, and Charles bristles under the perceived judgment. Most of the time, it is better. Better than those ten years alone. He doesn’t regret giving up the serum. Sometimes, though, at night or when he’s feeling his most maudlin, missing ghosts, Charles wonders when he’ll get used to not being able to walk again. That’s when he drinks. But never during the day—never when the children can see—and then only the finest whisky. 

“It’s none of your business, but if you must know, yes, I enjoy the occasional soporific effects of alcohol. Maybe I’m not as strong as you.” 

“We both know that’s not true.” Erik sets the tumbler down. When he fixes his gaze back on Charles this time, it has the old intensity, and Charles’ heart stutters as though Erik’s power has corrupted the iron in his blood and made it rush too fast. He’s tried to carve out the piece of him that loves the man, but like a mutation gone wrong, the cancerous rot keeps returning to poison his insides. Even now, he can feel it, a pulsing, living thing inside of his chest, blooming under the strength of Erik’s assessing stare as he looks from Charles’ face, down his body to his legs. No pity in his eyes. Charles shivers. 

“What do you want, Erik?” He is determined to keep his voice even. Civil. 

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” 

“You think we’re still friends?” 

Erik smiles again, and this time has the decency to look rueful. “I suppose I deserve that.” 

“That and more. You’re lucky Hank is sleeping, or he’d have had you for dinner by now.” 

“Is there anything else you’d like to say to me?” Erik hold his arms open wide, like a sacrifice. 

“No. I believe we’ve said all we have to say to each other.” 

“Have we? You said I took everything from you.” 

“And you said the same.” 

“It was true.” 

“As is what I said. We’ve done this before.” 

“What if I gave some of it back?” Erik’s handsome face loses some of its hardness, but Charles knows enough not to trust it. He’s made that mistake more than once. Still, it’s enough of a distraction wondering about Erik’s overriding intentions to miss the meaning behind his words, and Charles doesn’t quite understand when Erik sits next to him on the bed, crossing his long legs gracefully. He leans on one arm, close enough for the rise and fall of his breath to be visible, and for one mad moment, Charles thinks Erik might kiss him. Heat ratchets under his skin even as he fights to regain control of his defenses. He cannot go down so easily, but the want inside him sings. 

“I have a son,” Erik says. 

“You . . . what?” The words hit him like a shock of ice water, and he recoils instantly, just like the moment on the plane to Paris when Erik had first confirmed the nature of his relationship with Raven. 

“Quicksilver.” 

“But how?” He is sure the jealousy is plain on his face, but he can’t do anything to hide it. Absurd mental calculations follow. The child cannot possibly be Raven’s, but still the pain of the new knowledge sits like a heavy weight on his chest. 

“It was before I knew you. I was . . . careless.” Erik does not sound regretful. He is still staring at Charles. 

“Does Raven know?” 

“I doubt it. I haven’t seen her since Washington.” 

“Nor have I.” Charles’ heart rate slowly returns to normal, the dissipating adrenaline leaving his body shaky and tired. He doesn’t want to hear any more. He doesn’t want to think of all the lovers Erik has had, not when he himself hasn’t fucked anyone since the bullet pierced his spine. He doesn’t want to think about Raven and Erik, either, though that has clearly ended. He clenches his eyes shut and pretends the pain is in his back. 

“Are you alright?” 

“It will pass,” Charles says through clenched teeth. When he finally recovers himself, Erik’s face is soft with concern. His hand is on Charles’ knee, but there’s no sensation except flesh memory. Some places he can still feel, but below his upper thighs, his legs are lost to him.

“He is a very talented mutant.” 

“Indeed,” Charles says, remembering the track of the conversation. He does think fondly of the boy. It’s not his fault Charles wants things he can’t have. “We never would have gotten you out if not for him. Does he know?” 

“He does now. I must say it was a shock for us both when his mother called me, but I’m pleased. He’s a quick learner, and he’ll be a valuable asset.” 

“Of course.” Of course Erik only thinks of his son as a resource he can exploit for his cause. The cynical thought helps Charles withdraw further, gives him the strength to look Erik in the eye. “So why are you telling me this?” 

“I was hoping he could come here for training.” 

Charles laughs, incredulous. “Here? Whatever for?” 

“In spite of our differences, Charles, you know I respect what you do here, how you help the children hone their skills. How you helped me. Quicksilver is vastly talented, but he lacks discipline. He needs to learn how to use his powers for the good of other mutants.” 

Charles crosses his arms. “I’m not going to train your son to butcher humans.” 

“That’s not what I’m asking. He’s never been around others like him. He’s grown up with human children. He _likes_ them.” He can’t hide a grimace, and Charles nearly laughs. “He doesn’t understand the gift he’s been given.” Erik doesn’t say ‘the gift I gave him,’ but it’s heavily implied. _Please, Charles, for me._

Manipulative bastard. Charles feels his defenses crumbling again. 

“Where is he now?” 

Erik grins, genuinely now. It lights up his whole face and makes him look less like a predator. “Just outside.”

***

Quicksilver’s thoughts are difficult to read, coming fast as they do, but the images and words Charles manages to pull out tell him the teenager is happy to be at the school and wants to please Erik. He has always wanted a father. The other pupils are wary and curious at first, but warm quickly after sensing Quicksilver’s good nature, and by the end of the first day Charles watches from his study while the older boy plays tag with some of the younger children. He slows to human speed at times to give them a chance, which makes Charles smile. Tomorrow he’ll begin a more intensive training given Quicksilver’s age and the advancement of his gift, but he is not quite sure where to start. He’s not as sure as Erik seems to be that he has anything to teach.

Erik is nowhere to be seen, but Charles can still feel his presence on the grounds, and knows he hasn’t gone far. He doesn’t dare reach out to try to touch Erik’s thoughts. Instead, he goes to find Hank in the lab and the two of them spend the rest of the evening discussing the mutant DNA project he’s been working on. When Charles finally retires later that night once he’s sure Erik is already asleep, he finds a chessboard in his room set up on his breakfast table with one pawn forward. Charles bites back a smile and moves one of his pawns forward as well. 

The following day is much the same, except Erik slips in at some point during Charles and Quicksilver’s afternoon meeting and watches, arms folded and leaning back against the wall, as Charles instructs. His piercing gaze is directed at them both, and Charles feels his face heat as he describes in some detail the origin of mutantkind, as much as he knows of it so far. Quicksilver listens, bored, until he finishes. 

“I could use a spot of tea,” Charles finally says. “Would you like anything?” He looks from one of his companions to the other and avoids lingering on Erik for too long. Quicksilver is already gone like a shot. 

“What do you think of him?” Erik asks in a neutral voice. 

“I think he has one of the most astounding gifts I’ve ever seen, and he has it under almost perfect control. I . . . I’m still not sure what he’s doing here, Erik.” _Or what you are doing here._ He wheels around the table he’s been stationed at with as much dignity as he can muster. Hank is working on a more advanced design for his chair, but the prototype is so far non-functional, and so he has to make do with this cumbersome equipment that makes him feel rather self-conscious in the face of Erik’s graceful movements. 

Erik brackets his chin with thumb and forefinger, watching him. He doesn’t answer Charles’ implied question; instead, before Charles can protest, he uses his power to take control of the metal of Charles’ chair and wheel Charles closer than makes him comfortable. 

“He’s nothing like me, is he?” says Erik.

“Aside from the strength of his power, no. Though I can see the potential for arrogance.” 

Erik’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Arrogance. That’s something we both know a little about, don’t we, Charles?” 

“Me?” Charles claps his hands together, incredulous. 

“You are so convinced of your own righteousness you can’t see any other path. Anyone who disagrees with you is wrong.” 

“Look who’s talking!”

“At least I never denied it.”

“Are you calling me a hypocrite? If this is going to become a lecture on my privilege, you can spare me. It’s not privileged to want to help mutants without hurting the rest of mankind. Our brothers and sisters.” 

“Brothers and sisters!” Now Erik is angry. “Did you sleep through the last year? Don’t you remember how they designed machines to destroy us? All of us! Even you, my friend.” 

“You conveniently forget it was through an act of mercy that we lived, no thanks to you. If Raven hadn’t spared Trask we would all be dead by now.” Bile coats Charles’ tongue when he thinks of how Erik had turned on them all again. And left. Not that Charles would have wanted it any other way. 

“What if I admit I acted rashly?”

“You would never.” 

Erik grabs the arms of the wheelchair and leans down, so he is face-to-face with Charles, his breath coming in hot gusts Charles can feel against his skin. The sick desire inside of Charles wants to lean forward, capture those lips in a kiss, and hold onto him so he can’t escape intact. Erik’s grey eyes blaze. “Don’t tell me what I will and will not do, you arrogant bastard.” 

Charles digs deep for a retort but can find none. 

“You should shave,” Erik says. “The beard doesn’t suit you.” 

It’s not what he’s expecting. Charles’ mouth drops open, but before he can reply, Erik has vanished.

***

The days bleed into one another. Charles expects Erik to leave after the first couple of days, once Quicksilver has settled in, yet strangely enough he doesn’t. He takes one of the empty rooms in the east wing and spends most of his time wandering the grounds until it is time for lessons. He watches, never participating and never breaking so much as a smile. But his thoughts are getting louder, and Charles finds himself listening in on occasion, surprised by what he hears. It becomes increasingly clear that Erik cares for his son, or at least would like to. This is why he stays, Charles knows. He is not stupid enough believe there are any other reasons. For the first time since they met, Erik is content.

They continue their nightly chess moves; it is perhaps the slowest game they have ever played. Charles considers the board and notices Erik has left one of his rooks vulnerable, and he takes it with a bishop to win the exchange. He tsks to himself, pleased; Erik is not usually so careless. 

Charles takes a long shower that night. It is always a tedious process, but he manages without help, sitting on the special chair he had installed soon after he was shot, when Hank insisted not so politely he needed to bathe with more regularity. The warm water soothes his muscles and releases some of the day’s tensions, and he lathers himself efficiently, letting his hands rove lower to cup his flaccid cock. It responds weakly at first due to the muted sensation, which dismays him until he reminds himself to be thankful he hasn’t lost all functionality. It takes him longer now to get a full erection, and his cock doesn’t get as hard as it did when he used it with such thoughtless abandon, but he still enjoys a wank. 

He leans his head back against the shower wall and closes his eyes, touching himself between his thighs, and thinks about the men and women he’s fucked. They’re all distant memories now, hazily remembered limbs, skin, softness and hardness. He chases the recollection of being touched, of being penetrated, but it has been too long. Those times belong to a different man, and his body doesn’t respond—not until he thinks of Erik. 

Erik, all long lines, all fierceness. Charles’ cock begins to stiffen and he lets his mind wander to imagine the impossible. It is the same fantasy he’s indulged in for years, sprung from a moment back in the days when they were searching for their mutant family together, when he’d caught a glimpse of Erik naked. Even now, so many years later, he remembers the strong musculature of Erik’s back, his narrow waist, impressive cock, and heavy bollocks. He had been so at ease, striding around the room as though he owned it, not the least bit self-conscious at being caught nude. There would have been no way for him to know the thoughts rioting in Charles’ mind—how he imagined Erik taking him with force, holding him down, sinking deep inside. Charles’ breath catches in his throat, and the fantasy grows tender; now Erik is stroking him gently, reverently, kissing the back of his neck as they fuck. Charles beats himself off quickly once his erection manifests, knowing it will go down if not used with force, and he comes with a whimper as a weak spurt of semen coats his hand and is washed away. 

It is hardly an auspicious experience.

The water begins to run cold, and by the time he manages to extricate himself from the shower, he is exhausted. He sits on his wheelchair and towels himself off in the humidity of the bathroom. 

There is a knife at his throat. 

He gasps and lurches back, but he cannot escape. The blade follows his movements. Erik is standing on the other side of the room, close to the door, and his stern face stares out from the confines of his telepath-blocking helmet. When he looks again, Charles realizes what he had first thought was a knife is an old fashioned straight razor. There is a can of shaving cream on the counter. 

Erik chuckles. “You need a shave.” 

“Fuck’s sake! You scared the piss out of me.” Charles’ voice shakes with adrenaline as he quickly covers his lap, wishing he could search Erik’s mind for how long he’s been there, how much he’s seen. “Get this thing away from my face.” The razor hovers mere inches from his cheek. 

“You took my rook.” 

“You were careless.” 

From within his pocket, Erik draws out Charles’ white queen. “As were you.” 

“Goddammit!” Charles curses and the razor retreats, as though recoiling. He tries to remember how he left himself open to attack. Charles sighs and frowns at the queen. He’d been so excited to see Erik trip up he’d overlooked basic strategy, playing right into Erik’s hand. 

“You’re getting rusty, old friend. Now, let me shave off this horrid beard.” The sink turns on before Charles can protest, and Erik appears to be fighting a smile. “You can feel free to apply the shaving cream, unless you’d rather I did it.” 

“You’ll cut my throat.” The thought of Erik touching him is too appealing to the thing inside of him he can’t kill. 

“You know I would never hurt you if I could help it, Charles.” The sentence hangs in the air, thickening it along with the steam. 

“I don’t know anything of the sort.” Though he wants to believe. The razor nears again, poised to the left side of his face, waiting for Charles to acquiesce. 

“Let me prove it to you.” 

After a moment’s silence, Charles reaches for the can of shaving cream to lather his face, watching Erik from the corner of his eye. If he doesn’t give in, this could take all night. Once he has finished, he leans his head back and bares his throat. “Go on, then, if it will make you happy.” 

The first swipe is careful, almost delicate, and Charles holds his breath. He doesn’t think Erik would actually slit his throat, but feels foolish all the same for allowing this. It would serve him right if Erik proved him wrong. Another drag, and then the razor rinses itself under the water. 

“You must really hate my beard. That level of obsession is probably unhealthy.” 

“Probably.” Erik comes closer to stand behind Charles in his chair. “But someone has to put this creature out of its misery.” He smiles down at Charles’ upturned face as the razor continues doing its work. Charles can’t help thinking again about the shower, and whether Erik was there while he wanked. 

His cheeks heat. If Erik notices the blush, hopefully he attributes it to the warmth of the bathroom, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t speak as much as he used to, Charles realizes, not that Erik was ever a verbose man. In each other’s company, though, they had always been at ease. 

The swoosh of the running water mingles with the scraping of the razor against his beard, and Charles gradually relaxes, growing more confident he’ll survive the encounter intact. He pushes away the aching, lonely hollow in his chest. Even if Erik isn’t really touching him, it feels good to be cared for by someone other than Hank. 

“There. All done.” The words break the silence, and Charles opens his eyes, lurching back from the precipice of sleep. Erik uses a towel to gently remove the rest of the shaving cream, and Charles lets him, surprised by the gesture. The Turkish cotton is soft, but Erik handles it carefully, as though he’s afraid of rubbing too harshly against the freshly shaven skin. 

“You look like yourself again.” Erik’s voice is rough. 

“Do I?” 

“Take a look.” With the towel, Erik clears the mirror of condensation, and the man staring back at Charles looks ten years younger. 

“Not too bad.” Charles rubs the skin, aware of Erik’s eyes on him. He’s never had such a close shave.

***

The next night, once school has ended for the day, Charles and Erik complete their chess game. It doesn’t take long for Erik to win now that he has Charles’ queen, but he doesn’t gloat about it. Instead, he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. Even though Erik is wearing his helmet, Charles recognizes the expression on his face.

“You’re leaving?” Charles tries to keep his tone neutral. It was surprising Erik stayed this long, after all. 

“Tonight.” 

“Ah. I see. Secret mission?” he asks blithely. He doesn’t really want to know whatever Erik is up to. 

“In a manner of speaking.” 

“Ah.” 

“It’s been good spending time with you, old friend. I hope you will forgive my abrupt departure, but some things cannot be helped.” 

“Whatever you do with your life is none of my business.” Charles pushes back from the table, perhaps too abruptly. The remaining pieces scatter across the board. “Damn.” He reaches to collect them but can’t quite manage from the height of his chair. 

Erik stands. “Let me.”

“I can do it,” Charles snaps. “I’m perfectly able.” There is a tense moment of silence, but Charles manages to collect all of the pieces without toppling over, and he sets them back on the table. 

“I hope you don’t mind if my son stays.” 

“Of course not.” Charles doesn’t dare ask the question pricking the back of his mind. _Will you come back?_ Still, the knowledge that by this time tomorrow, Erik will be gone eats at him more than it should. In fact, he finds he can’t tolerate it at all.

“You’re angry,” Erik says. 

“I’m not angry.”

“I know you well enough to know when you’re angry. Why not admit it? You think I’m warmongering. I’ll have you know this particular mission won’t involve any casualties, human or otherwise. Look into my thoughts if you don’t believe me.” He makes as though to remove the helmet. 

“I’ll pass.” Charles shakes his head. “I never should have let you back into my life again.”

“I didn’t know you had.” 

“You don’t know much, do you?” Charles feels his face heat again, but this time with indignation. He wants Erik out of his room. 

“Charles—”

“Get out.” 

“Not until you listen to what I have to say.” 

“There’s nothing you have to say worth hearing.” 

Erik’s calm mask falters at the words, forehead wrinkling into a frown, and Charles detects real pain there. The sadistic side of him rejoices, but the tender side, unfortunately larger than its counterpart, wants to weep. He won’t show that kind of weakness to Erik again. 

“I’m in love with you,” Erik says simply. 

The words strike Charles deep in the gut. “What?” 

“I know you love me, too.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t lie to me. Why do you think I’ve buried these thoughts so deep in my mind you’d never find them? Why do you think I wear this bloody helmet in the first place, to stop you from cheating at chess? I never wanted you to know.” 

The pain that twists around Charles’ heart is worse than the bullet. “I never thought you’d stoop so low.” But in the next instant, Erik has removed his helmet, and thoughts fly out into the ether with wild abandon, Charles has never experienced the like of it. _Love. Love you, you stupid man. Love_. Desire hidden away in the darkest recesses, returning now to light. Charles closes his eyes against it but it pounds against him, seeking entry, tangling so intricately in with his own thoughts he cannot tell where Erik’s mind ends and his begins; Erik has taken him over. 

“Am I lying?” Erik speaks softly. “Tell me if I could lie about this.” 

Years of loneliness and isolation, regret and anger, and through it all, a love burning so fiercely not even Charles’ own hatred could quell it. _I always loved you. I will always love you. Why do you think I wanted Raven? Because she was yours_. Lying on a prison cot staring at the ceiling. _Charles, forgive me_. The words are repeated so many times Charles wonders if Erik is trying to drive him mad. It is all he has ever wanted, and he can’t bear it. 

“This is why I didn’t tell you,” Erik says. He is retreating now towards the door. Charles blinks and hot drops of water splash onto his shirt. _I would only destroy you. There is nothing that I love that I do not destroy._

“But haven’t you already?” Charles grips the wheels of his chair, poised between wanting to move toward Erik and to turn his back to the man. “If you admit that much, you’ll see there is very little left, so you may as well give me what I want.”

Erik, who has been standing near the threshold, pauses. His handsome face looks as anguished as it had been the day on the beach. “Do you know what you’re asking?” 

“I’m asking for you to fuck me.” 

Erik’s eyes go wide at Charles’ bluntness. He is obviously not expecting the answer, or if he is, seems at a loss. Charles keeps his gaze steady. 

“But . . . can . . .” Erik gestures helplessly. 

“Don’t treat me like an invalid. Not you. I don’t require gentleness. I don’t require solicitation. I require a fuck, no strings, no expectations. I’m not a fool.” 

Erik comes to him with a fierce expression, dropping the helmet as he approaches. It clatters, abandoned, to the floor. When Erik leans down over Charles, Charles worries Erik might strike him, he appears so agitated. 

“I know you’re not a fool, but you’re speaking like one if you think I could ever have you just once, Professor.” Instead of a fist, lips descend, infinitely more devastating. Charles gasps against Erik’s mouth and grabs a fistful of his shirt—bloody black turtleneck—to pull him closer. Their mouths clash together in a fury of tongues and teeth, and Erik’s taste and scent is more alluring than any encounter Charles can remember. His arousal comes upon him with the surprise of spontaneity, magnified by the feelings and sensations he’s getting from Erik. _More, yes, kiss me you darling_. Darling. Charles chases the word through his brain like an eager puppy, hardly able to believe it comes from the man who once was his friend, and was until very recently his nemesis. He cannot believe all of the things about him Erik finds attractive. _Your lips, your fingers, your smart mouth, your bloody wonderful brain._ And then the stronger, darker feelings: pent-up aggression and lust. 

Their tongues slip together, intimate as their thoughts until Erik lifts Charles, unsolicitously, out of his chair. Strong arms around his back annul the distressing sensation of legs dangling above the floor like broken flower stems, and Charles has no choice but to wrap his arms around Erik’s neck and hold on tight. It isn’t something he is accustomed to. The last time Hank tried to lift him like this Charles’ temper lit like a short fuse. Somehow, being held by Erik is different. Perhaps it is that they are equals, or maybe it is something else entirely. Charles has never been kissed like this before. 

Erik kisses with his whole body, hungrily, leaning into Charles as though he would devour him even as he holds him up, and Charles finds himself tossed onto the bed before another minute passes. It has been a long time since he associated bed with pleasure. For the past ten years it has only been a place of isolation, sickness and recovery. He pushes those unpleasant thoughts and memories from his mind, not wanting Erik to see; their minds are too connected now. He concentrates instead on the feeling of Erik on top of him, pulling deep kisses, jealous of the air in Charles’ lungs. _This is what I meant. I’ll consume you if you let me._

_Do it. I don’t care._

Their cocks are hard, rubbing together through their trousers, and Charles can feel it, really feel it, nothing like his recent tepid masturbation. _God, I want you, Charles_. He nearly cries with relief, and when Erik pulls back to look down at him, he believes him. 

Erik slides his hand between them to cup Charles’ cock, and moments later he is freeing it. Charles pushes himself up on his elbows to watch as Erik maneuvers between his splayed, useless legs. His cock, dark with arousal, juts from his unzipped trousers, and Erik taps it against his lips, smiling at whatever he must see on Charles’ face, before taking it down to the root. His expression is fraught, and he murmurs something Charles can’t hear but _knows_ as _fuck yes, give it to me_. 

The wet heat of Erik’s mouth on him makes Charles quiver from his fingers down to, he imagines, his toes. Erik doesn’t tease; just as with his kisses, he attends to the task like a man recently rescued from the desert. He pulls off Charles’ trousers the rest of the way and sucks first one of Charles’ bollocks, then the other, into his mouth, humming with satisfaction at Charles’ groaning response. Charles lets his head fall back onto the bed. It’s too much effort to hold himself up when he already feels boneless, and with every suck and stroke, his mind grows fuzzier, leaving no room for anything but the sensation of pleasure, his own and Erik’s. Bolder still, Erik lifts Charles’ legs and slips down lower between them to tongue at Charles’ hole. Charles bites his bottom lip as he tries to hold onto the fleeting sensations; he is less sensitive here, but every time he feels Erik taste him, it is like a gift. Even more than the act, it is the idea of it that makes his cock throb—the idea Erik wants him in this way. 

_Tell me what feels good to you. Where you can feel_ , Erik asks with his mind, and Charles answers as best as he can, sighing and guiding Erik’s head in the search. Erik’s tongue laves a path between his scrotum and arse, but no sensation translates; yet when Erik sucks a kiss into the back of Charles’ thigh, he nearly whites out from pleasure. Funny how places on his body he never knew existed have become erogenous zones. His shirt is undone and tossed carelessly aside. He closes his eyes and lets Erik devour his thighs, his stomach, his nipples. 

It is rapidly becoming clear this is not to be the rough, quick fuck Charles asked for. He doesn’t know whether to be worried or pleased about it; Erik will still be leaving in the end. He decides to be pleased. He realizes at some point Erik has undressed. When Erik leaves off to kiss Charles on the mouth again, their cocks slip together, the heat of skin on skin like an intoxicating dream. Erik’s cock is massive, nearly twice the girth of Charles’ and several inches longer. Charles shivers again at the thought of it inside him. 

“Do you still want this?” Erik asks, though the glint in his eyes gives his assurance away. 

Charles nods, wrapping his arms around Erik’s hard body and giving him a cheeky mental glimpse of where he stores the lube. 

_Condoms?_

_Not unless you think it’s necessary._

Charles sees the years in prison, glimpses moments of Erik alone with his cock in his hand, an invasive barrage of medical tests. 

_It’s okay._

Erik noses Charles’ cheek—soft from regular shaves now—and releases him for a moment to retrieve it. Just as Charles remembers, Erik is utterly comfortable in his nakedness, and why shouldn’t he be? He stretches over like a large cat to reach the bedside table drawer, and comes back with the small plastic bottle, uncapping it to wet his fingers and slather his erection. 

“If I lay on my side, it will be better,” Charles says, though he actually has no idea if it will be. After his injury he was too despondent to think about sex, and then other cares replaced those drives, and he had never bothered to ask; but the idea of Erik moving against him from behind, holding him, is appealing. 

Erik nods and helps shift him into position. He places a pillow in between Charles’ legs to hold them open, and the wet tip of Erik’s cock prods against the small of Charles’s back as he moves into place, spooning from behind. 

“Fuck me,” Charles says, and without preamble, Erik does. He pushes forward, and Charles winces as the thick ridge of Erik’s cockhead breaches him, more in anticipation than in any real pain. The stretch would be magnified if Charles had full sensation, but knowing the risk of injury, Erik goes very slowly. He moves minutely, breathing heavily against Charles’ ear, as though the restraint of holding back is taxing him beyond endurance. 

Charles whispers words of encouragement, or maybe he thinks them. He thinks words of love, too, words that Erik has already given him, words he hasn’t wanted to give away. He thinks somewhat dreamily of how he held onto them as tightly as Erik had, but for different reasons. He never believed Erik could love him, not enough not to hurt him, not enough to stay. And he tells Erik, and Erik says he is sorry, even as his erection sinks deeper, filling Charles until his bollocks are snug against Charles’ arse, and all of their explanations and apologies give way to something much more urgent. 

It is deliberate and awkward. Erik’s thoughts fragment as he withdraws and begins the press back inside, one hand gripping Charles’s arse, the other holding his chest. The pressure of the cock is almost distant until it is fully inside, seated within him; Erik’s thoughts, however, are tangible, seductive, and Charles gives himself over to feeling what Erik feels, feeling the exquisite pressure of his own arse gripping Erik’s cock, the sweet torture of a slow fuck. His own erection leaks against the sheets, pulsing each time Erik thrusts. Charles curls into Erik’s mind for comfort, seeking warmth amidst the chaos there, knowing the pleasure is mutual with no walls between them now. Erik grunts and starts moving faster, and Charles wishes he could do more, grind his hips seductively, hook a foot behind Erik’s legs to urge him on, but Erik quiets those thoughts. _You are perfect. You are perfect and I’m sorry I have to have all of you._

Erik kisses him again, their mouths meeting messily over Charles’ shoulder, and he cries out in surprise when Erik takes his cock in hand and starts jerking it fast and hard, in tempo with his thrusts. His orgasm hits him quickly and without mercy, shattering the last vestiges of delusion he will be anything but completely shattered when Erik leaves him again. He shoots far, body wracked by spasms as he comes hard around Erik’s cock, and Erik presses his mouth against Charles’ sweaty forehead and grunts his own climax, the most beautiful thing Charles has ever seen in someone else’s mind. 

After it is over they lay together panting, undone by the knowledge of what has finally transpired, their lives leading inexorably to this moment. Charles shudders as Erik slowly withdraws from his body, and he reaches back to feel the trickle of semen left behind. A strange fancy occurs to him, but he quickly pushes it out of his mind. It involves Erik in his bed until they are bald men snarking at each other in their dotage. It brings tears to his eyes, which he quickly blinks away before Erik can see, thankful they are turned away from each other. Already their thoughts have drifted apart. 

Erik exhales heavily against Charles’ shoulder. He hasn’t yet made a move. Charles begins to grow aware of the rest of his body, the soreness of his shoulder underneath him, an uncomfortable tingling at the base of his spine. 

“Help me up.” 

Without speaking, Erik helps Charles rearrange himself in a more comfortable position, propped up on pillows at the head of the bed. He is more like himself now: gone is the infinite tenderness and desperation of their lovemaking. Erik has always had a gift for shutting that part of himself off, Charles thinks despondently. Still, after Erik returns from the bathroom, dressed once again, he gives him a smile. “Well,” Charles says helplessly, still naked under the sheet. 

Erik’s face softens, and he approaches the bed to take Charles’ hand. He presses a kiss against the palm, and then stares at the place he has kissed before folding Charles’ fingers together. 

“I’ll come back,” Erik says. 

Charles nods. “Of course.” He says the words with the conviction he doesn’t feel. It is enough to know that Erik returns his love, perhaps. It will suffice. 

“You don’t believe me.” 

“The next time we meet might be under unpleasant circumstances, and I prefer not to think about that right now.” 

“No one else will have you, Charles.” Erik’s eyes narrow as he deviates the conversation. “Promise me.” 

Charles barks a laugh. “Who else would have me?” 

“I’m serious. You’re mine now.” 

The dark conviction of the words thrills Charles even as it frightens him. He has, after all, given himself to Erik under full recognition of what that might mean. 

“Whatever differences we have, this will not change.” Erik kisses him again, hard on the mouth. A shock of arousal ignites Charles’ blood like a fever, even though it has been mere minutes since his climax. His mouth feels like it may be bruised from the intensity of the kiss, which seems like farewell. “You may not believe me, but I am not your enemy,” Erik says once they break apart. “I’ll prove it to you.” 

“All right.” 

_Goodbye, love._

Once Erik is gone from the room, Charles feels strangely, utterly calm. He had expected a sensation not unlike his heart being torn from his chest, a familiar feeling where Erik is concerned, but there is nothing but the steady beat of his heart. He realizes he is smiling quite crazily. 

On the floor, next to the bed, Erik has left behind his helmet.


End file.
